


Sleeping Sun

by rawrkinjd



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Bigotry & Prejudice, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-22 13:20:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22283485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: Heroes are made, not born.  When Geralt inadvertantly makes a powerful enemy, Jaskier must step up and be the hero of his next ballad.Inspired by Dan Vasc's cover of "Sleeping Sun" (originally by Nightwish).Continuation from Sonnet X.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 110
Kudos: 674
Collections: Best Geralt





	1. Chapter 1

Jaskier had always felt Aedirn to be a desolate place. 

It was as cold and unforgiving as the metals that its economy relied upon. Ever since they had left the friendlier kingdoms of Redania, the bard had felt on edge. Each village and town they arrived in possessed a brand of unrestrained hostility that Jaskier found exceptionally uncomfortable. The Witcher collected small amounts of payment here and there, clearing what he dubbed _pest infestations;_ ghoul and nekker nests. The necrophages loved death and rot, and there was plenty of that in Aedirn.

Eventually, Geralt agreed to stop for a drink and a meal that wasn’t hare or fish. The tavern they found was squat and dark, but Jaskier was too tired and too hungry to complain… and besides, there was always the potential to earn some coin with a song. Once Roach had been tied to a hitching post, Geralt joined his bard in the murky interior and tapped his fist on the bar in a request for an ale. He listened to Jaskier strum on his lute and begin a recitation of one of his latest songs.

_If only they knew the identity of the golden-eyed beauty that featured so heavily in the chorus._

It was shaping up to be a pleasant evening, and Geralt was three drinks and a roast beef stew in when the hairs on the back of neck stood on end. The tavern door scraped open, and three men entered, armed and boorish, carrying themselves as if inviting challenge. _Great_. 

The three seated themselves in the far corner and muttered together in low voices, glancing in Jaskier’s direction as the bard continued to sing as prettily as a starling. Geralt turned in his stool enough to keep the three in his peripheral; the hood shielded his own identity pulled up over his head and the fact that his swords remained obscured by the rest of his cloak. He was essentially invisible.

And then they made a rather significant mistake.

The larger of the three stood up and approached Jaskier. Over the general chatter of the tavern, Geralt couldn’t pick out their entire conversation. What he did see, however, was the cheeky smile Jaskier flashed his _discerning_ customer upon replying to whatever request had been made. Apparently, the bard’s response was not acceptable, because the thug proceeded to backhand him hard enough to knock his lute from his hands and send him reeling across the floor.

Geralt moved – silent and lethal – from the barstool and squared up to the aggressor before Jaskier’s head had even stopped spinning. The hood fell away, and the occupants of the surrounding tables audibly shifted in abject horror. _Witcher._ The whispered word rippled around the room until most conversations had stopped. The bandit looked slightly taken aback and, unsure of his next move, gave ground at the sight of that threatening glare and set jaw. His resolve strengthened when his companions arrived to back him up, and he reached towards his belt for the handle of the machete slung there.

“Geralt… Geralt… please, it’s—it’s not worth it.” Jaskier gripped Geralt’s wrist guard and tried to pull him away. The Witcher’s head tilted down to glance over his shoulder. _A split lip._ The violence bubbled in Geralt’s chest with the ferocity of an active volcano, and he clenched his teeth and fists together to manage it. 

When he moved, it was to gesture in an offhand sign. Voice commanding, “Apologise.” Jaskier recognised it as Axii, and the bandit’s face went slack.

“I’m sorry, bard.”

“No. _Grovel_.”

Jaskier grimaced uncomfortably as his attacker dropped to his knees and clasped his hands together in reverent supplication. “Please, master. Forgive me.” The bard wasn’t the only one unsettled at the sight; the other two glanced at each other and then grabbed their friend by the shoulders – _Rob, c’mon, mate, let’s get out of here –_ to haul him towards the door.

“You’ll regret that, Witcher. Mark me.” One of them spat over his shoulder as they departed. Geralt waited for several moments, staring at the door, before turning to Jaskier. One gloved hand took the bard’s chin and tilted his head, amber eyes examining the trickle of blood that dribbled from his bottom lip.

“Geralt, it’s… it’s nothing. We should leave. I think we have rather outstayed our welcome.” Jaskier glanced nervously around them, and only now did Geralt bother to look at the other patrons. He was used to the open hostility and disgusted stares, but Jaskier still found it difficult. Without a word, the Witcher stooped down to pick Jaskier’s lute from the floor and place it into his hands, indicating that he should lead on.

When they stepped out into the cold air, the bandits had already high-tailed it away, and Roach whickered in greeting as Geralt untied her from the post. He nudged Jaskier and indicated the saddle, moving on with Roach’s reins in his hands only once the bard was comfortable and his lute secure.

They camped in the wilderness that evening. Jaskier noted that Geralt couldn’t relax, and instead of bedding down to sleep, he opted to meditate instead; he knelt with his back to Jaskier, chin tilted down his chest and eyes closed, perfectly still in the pale moonlight. Jaskier fell asleep with his stoic guardian watching over him. 

* * *

“It’s broken, Geralt.”

“We will stop in the next town. A carpenter will fix it.”

“No… it just won’t _sound_ right. Like a broken bone that healed badly; the limb never functions the same again. If you had just let me have at that bastard, I would have shown him what for.”

Geralt huffed. They had to head back through that same town to reach the open road again, and Geralt broadcast his armoury quite flagrantly to ward off any further harassment. The ramshackle huts were fading into the background as Geralt drew Roach to a halt, turning to look back at the man running frantically after them. “Witcha’! Wait!”

When their pursuer caught up, he doubled over, wheezing. Geralt allowed him to collect himself without comment, and Jaskier was busy nursing the broken lute over his lap atop Roach. “’ve… ‘’ve got a job fer ya’, Witcha’. It’s a dragon, swear on me mum’s life.”

Jaskier perked up instantly. “A _dragon_? You can’t be serious… by the Gods Geralt, a dragon?”

Their potential contractor nodded enthusiastically, “Swear it… swear it. Swoops down and snaps up a handful of cattle. Poisoned me sister’s bruva with its tail it did… died within a day. Can’t let our lil’uns out.” 

“Name?”

“Paxton. At ya service, and I know who you are… yer the Butcher of Blaviken, ain’t’cha?”

Jaskier winced. Geralt always took it stoically, except that one time that it had earned Jaskier a punch to the gut. _Butcher of Blaviken._ One mistake amongst a thousand good deeds, but it was the mistake that people remembered. The Witcher continued, unphased, “Payment?”

“Fifty crowns.”

“For a dragon?” Jaskier exclaimed, incredulous. “You can’t be serious? That’s a paltry sum--.”

“Done.”

“Thank ye’. Find me in town when yer done. We can mount its head on the wall o’ the tavern. Make a nice attraction for visitors.”

When their new employer had disappeared down the path, Jaskier piped up. “ _Geralt…_ fifty crowns for a dragon. Are you serious? They breathe fire, and…”

“I don’t kill dragons, Jaskier.”

“Then why on earth did you just accept a contract to do exactly that?”

“It isn’t a dragon.” 

“Oh, oh… and you know that from that mess of a description?”

Geralt cast Jaskier a censorious glance but said nothing more. He steered Roach back towards the town, and the bard groaned inwardly. _Why couldn’t the dragon have eaten sheep at the next village over?_

* * *

The farmer was only too happy to show Geralt the wreckage of his fields. It hadn’t rained in a couple of days, and even Jaskier could still see the blood staining the ground. Tufts of fleece floated eerily in the emptiness, and the man looked absolutely crestfallen. “It’s eaten everythin’ I had. We can’t get anymore… not ‘til we know it’s dead.”

“Have no fear, fine man. Geralt of Rivia will slay your dragon.” Jaskier declared, perched on the fence as he watched the Witcher work. Geralt paced around the field, occasionally stopping to crouch and touch the ground; he lifted his fingers to his lips and then spat out whatever he had tasted. Jaskier grimaced. 

“So?” He hopped down excitedly when Geralt returned to the gate. “Consumed enough of your prey to know what it is?”

Geralt grunted. “A royal wyvern. Male. Big. I’m going to need some ingredients…”

“Oh?”

“They’re poisonous. They have a huge barb on their tail, and their saliva is toxic too. I knew a Witcher once that got stabbed in the heart. It took him three days, but he died in agony.”

“Oh, sounds wonderful….” 

“Mmm.”

“Still think fifty crowns is enough?”

“Yes.” 

Jaskier heaved a sigh. “ _Fine._ But I better get a bloody good song out of this.”

It was golden oriole that Geralt needed. They camped that evening back in the very same clearing as the night before. The Witcher disappeared into the woodland for several hours to find his ingredients, and Jaskier sat huddled by the fire with his lute. It twanged and pinged pitifully, and Jaskier set it aside in sorrow.

When Geralt returned, he found his bard staring wistfully into the flames; his lute abandoned at his side. The Witcher dropped his herbs into the mortar and sat down by the fire. Jaskier perked up at the prospect of learning something Witcher-y and shifted closer. Geralt named each ingredient as he combined them. “Bryonia, ergot seeds, verbena, beggartick, ranogrin, mistletoe and--,”

“White Gull.”

“I’m glad Letho’s instructions stuck so well.”

“Yes, well… one does learn quite quickly under threat of being tossed off the top of Kaer Morhen. What next?”

“Saddlebag on the right. I need allspice too.”

“And this will stop you dying when it stabs you in the ass?”

“That’s the idea.”

“Excellent.”

Jaskier grabbed the required ingredients and watched as Geralt brewed his potion, standing up only when the Witcher gestured for an empty jar to pour it into. As it cooled in the open air, Jaskier sidled up to Geralt’s side and tucked his head under the Witcher’s chin. 

It took him all but ten minutes to fall asleep, and Geralt wrapped him in his own cloak, knowing full well that humans were subconsciously comforted by the scent of their loved ones, even if they didn’t know it themselves. When Roach lowered herself obediently to the floor, he rested his snoozing bard next to her warm bulk. He pushed her nose away when she turned her head to chew on Jaskier’s hair, as she now had the penchant for doing at every available opportunity. “I don’t share, Roach.” 

Geralt returned to his silent vigil on the edge of the clearing.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

“There is something I can’t quite get my head around. Our contactor said his sister’s brother. Does that mean he has a different mother or a different father? And why would they be _living_ together? I mean, I know these Aedirnians are a bit iffy, look at Yennefer, but… oh, and another thing—.” 

Jaskier had been talking for half an hour straight. Geralt wasn’t listening. They had packed up camp and followed the trail of the wyvern from its hunting ground. The Witcher left the path now and then to check damage to branches, shrubbery and scent markings; at one point, Jaskier held Roach’s bridle for half an hour while Geralt rustled around in bushes and clambered up trees. When they reached a huge canyon, with the bridge shattered in half and no other way to cross, Jaskier huffed a sigh.

“Well, looks like we’ve hit a dead-end… perhaps we could head back the same way again—”

Geralt approached the cliff edge and looked down as Jaskier continued to muse on their next direction. The Witcher heaved a sigh and looked imploringly at the sky as if some unseen deity would provide a better option than the one he had just seen. He walked back to Roach and shrugged his cloak from his shoulders to place it over her saddle. From the bags, he pulled two grapeshot bombs and notched them both onto his belt. Jaskier only paid attention when Geralt bounced up and down on the balls of his feet and rolled his shoulders; limbering up. “Geralt, uh… what… what are you—?” 

Before he could finish, the Witcher returned to the cliff edge with a silver sword in hand and gazed over once more, sifting through something. He backtracked several deliberate strides, paused to rock backwards and forwards on his heels and then _sprinted off the edge._ Jaskier’s mouth dropped open – _had he just talked Geralt of Rivia into jumping off a cliff?_

There was a distressingly long moment of silence and Roach nudged at Jaskier’s hand as if to request reassurance. But eventually, the screech and snarl that Geralt had clearly heard some time ago finally became loud and close enough for Jaskier to hear. The wyvern exploded above the lip of the cliff, with the Witcher astride its back. 

The creature was _huge_. Geralt had told him that royal wyverns were bigger than the more common species, but it made the Witcher clinging to its back look like a matchstick. Its fiery red scales shone brightly in the afternoon sun, and that poisonous, barbed tail lashed forward over its back in an attempt to remove its unwanted passenger. During one of these passes, the tail smashed into the side of Geralt’s right arm. The Witcher swore angrily as the silver sword tumbled from his grip and disappeared into the canopy of the trees. “Land, you ugly piece of shit.” He dropped back to snag the ridge of one of its wings and bend it out of place. The wyvern snarled in pain and its trajectory through the air faltered. 

Unable to use the air currents or both its wings, the wyvern tumbled towards the ground and landed gracelessly on its side. Jaskier dived out of the way as it slid past and Roach reared on her hind legs. A huge dust-cloud coated the surrounding trees and bushes in a thin layer of soil as the creature flapped and snarled; it threw the Witcher off by rolling back onto its two talon-ed feet and thrashing its head. Geralt dodged out of the way with an agile roll as its barbed tail smashed into the ground in an attempt to crush him. That same tail continued to whip around dangerously, trying to force the Witcher towards its mouth.

Jaskier crouched behind a fallen tree and watched Geralt punch the wyvern in the jaw with such force that it retreated to re-evaluate its options briefly, and then surged forward again, huge maw open to swallow him. The Witcher used this opportunity to shove a grapeshot bomb between its teeth and, as it snapped in retaliation, he latched on and held its mouth closed by wrapping his arms and legs around its snout. The wyvern threw its head viciously from side to side to shake Geralt free, but the Witcher held on with a feral snarl of effort… and then the bomb exploded inside its skull.

The creature stilled as if suddenly frozen in ice, before collapsing with a loud, rattling sigh as its last breath escaped. Geralt unfurled from beneath its head as smoke billowed out of its nostrils, ear canals and eye sockets. Jaskier stepped out onto the path, staring at the ruby-coloured wyvern in awe, and then to his Witcher. “You’re a magnificent bastard, you know that?” 

“Hmm.” Geralt pulled the knife from his belt, grabbed the wyvern by one of its obsidian horns and set about cutting his way through the softer hide under its throat. Drenched in the blood of his kill, the Witcher clicked his tongue to coax Roach to him and set about securing the head to the top of her saddle. 

“How did you know you wouldn’t blow your legs or, uh, something… _worse_ off?”

“I didn’t.” 

“Well, you were very selfish for taking such a risk with something that belongs to me—where are you going?”

Geralt was heading into the forest. “To find my sword.”

“Ah, well, _I_ could help you with that.”

“I’ll take you up on that offer tonight. Wait here.” 

* * *

After setting fire to the wyvern’s corpse, Geralt and Jaskier returned to retrieve payment from their contractor. They didn’t expect the welcoming committee. 

A group of eight men awaited them; six dressed in the brown uniforms of witch-hunters and one in the Eternal Fire's red and white robes. The eighth was the bandit that Geralt had embarrassed the day before, his arms folded over his chest, a shit-eating grin on his face. _Cretin._

Geralt pulled the wyvern’s head from the saddle and approached with it grasped in his left hand. The blood left a trail from horse to the head’s final resting place at the feet of the priest. “You are not welcome here, Witcher. Leave now, and we will spare your life.”

“Pay me, and I will gladly be on my way.”

The priest barked a laugh, his head tilting up and revealing more of his face as he spoke. “You don’t _pay_ a horse for ploughing a field, or a mangy dog for guarding your house. Through fulfilling their purpose, they earn their right to continued existence. You have fulfilled your _purpose,_ now be gone.”

“Hmm.” Geralt abandoned the head at their feet and returned to Roach. He shrugged his cloak off for the second time that day, and then removed the swords from his back, lashing them to Roach’s side. Finally, he removed his belt, wrapping one end around his fist.

“ _Geralt_ , this is hardly the time for a striptease. What in the seven hells are you _doing?_ ” 

The witch hunters shifted uneasily, and Jaskier watched as one of them surreptitiously slipped a bolt into his crossbow. Geralt had seen it too because he spun out the way as the projectile was loosed. The belt in his hand whipped across the face of the assailant, sending him careening into a stack of empty crates with a huge welt across his jaw. 

Using only his belt and bare hands, Geralt systematically dispatched each of the witch-hunters in turn with acrobatic finesse. By the end, they lay scattered and disarmed, groaning in pain, but still very much alive. The bandit had fled as soon as he realised Geralt had taken the denial of payment rather personally. And now, the priest scrambled back on hands and knees in horror as Geralt approached, flopping back onto his arse when the Witcher booted him in the shoulder and helped himself to the coin purse revealed at his belt.

“You’ll… you’ll pay for this, son of a whore.” Geralt had been walking away at this point, but now he stopped with a heavy sigh. He bit his lower lip between his teeth, rolled his eyes skyward, and then down to the floor like a man suffering at the hands of obligation. He turned back, tossed the coin purse in his hand before using it to smash the priest so hard in the face it knocked him unconscious.

When he returned, Jaskier was still staring at the carnage. “Signature move of yours?”

“Mmm. Let’s go. I could use a good night’s sleep.”

They left the village behind and headed south to warmer, less hostile climes. 

* * *

“Why did you spare them, Geralt?”

“Hm?” The Witcher crouched by the fire, turning their meal on the spit it was festooned to. A rather large hare that Geralt had trapped half an hour earlier.

“The witch hunters… the priest… you left your swords behind. Why? They could have…” Jaskier shifted uncomfortably, fidgety without his lute to keep him occupied. He left the end of the sentence unsaid.

“I slay monsters, Jaskier. Not men.” Geralt’s title of dishonour hung in the brief silence – _Butcher of Blaviken_ was enough.

The bard gathered his knees to his chest. “In my experience, they are often the same. You killed a bloody dragon. And they wanted to kick you to the curb like a… well, like a _dog._ ”

“I’m used to it. Stop agonising.” Geralt sat cross-legged, hands resting on his knees.

The bard unfurled quickly and went straight for that chiselled jaw he loved holding so much, forcing his Witcher to look him in the eyes. “You shouldn’t be. They don’t deserve you. One day, one day… when there are enough songs of your deeds, enough witnesses to your feats of bravery, they will regret every foul word.”

Geralt smiled, amber eyes studying the righteous outrage that flamed in Jaskier’s on his behalf. The raw determination and quivering passion in the bard’s voice stirred the Witcher to close the gap between them and press a deep, indulgent kiss to his lips. Jaskier allowed himself to be pulled into Geralt’s lap, melting against his chest in grateful abandon. 

Their meal was all but forgotten.

* * *

Spring turned to summer as they continued to head south. As they left the village further and further behind, Jaskier felt his heart and mood lighten. No more witch hunters, no more priests of the Eternal-damned-Fire. They were heading to the Valley of Flowers and, outside Oxenfurt, it was one of Jaskier’s favourite places. As they crested the last of the bleak hills that bordered Aedirne, the valley practically bloomed from the horizon, with the Blue Mountains looming majestically in the background. 

Geralt dismounted to prevent Roach from stopping and chewing on every flower she came across, and Jaskier skipped ahead, running his hands across the young buds and fresh green leaves of early summer. They stopped just outside Upper Posada when Jaskier spotted a rather beautiful building framed in flowering trees. It didn’t take much convincing for Geralt to agree to stay the night, and Jaskier skipped joyfully through the door.

“To the wine, Geralt!”

* * *

When Geralt had retired to their room far earlier than usual, Jaskier worried that one of his most recent ballads had upset him. Without his lute, the bard relied solely upon his voice, but it gathered more than enough coin to make his evening worthwhile. However, when his Witcher stood abruptly and stomped upstairs, it sucked the joy out of the atmosphere. If there was no hero, then there was no adventure to be had.

“Geralt… are you awake?”

“Fuck off, Jaskier... I’m trying to sleep.”

“Oh, good.”

Sprawled on his front in the bed, Geralt gazed over his bicep at Jaskier with hooded golden eyes; the blankets had fallen to his hips, exposing the scar-mottled plains of his back and suggesting his shirt wasn’t the only item of clothing missing.

There was a half-empty tub of water near the fire. The Witcher had decided to bathe before heading to bed, and Jaskier really couldn’t blame him for wringing every last bit of comfort out of the place. The inn they had found was a veritable palace; clean, linen sheets, and furs on the beds. Jaskier had practically fainted with joy when he had spied flower centrepieces on the tables downstairs. Geralt gathered his arms beneath his pillow and turned face down into it with an impatient huff of dismissal.

“Well, if that isn’t an invitation, I don’t know what is,” Jaskier knocked back a huge mouthful of wine and abandoned the rest on the windowsill. He unbuttoned his tunic and pulled it over his head, kicked off his boots and approached the bed, disappearing out of Geralt’s peripheral in just his breeches and shirt.

A rumble of warning. “Jaskier…”

“Don’t be grumpy, Geralt.”

A rustle of bags and the sound of glass jingling, Geralt’s eyes narrowed, and he turned his head to try and catch sight of the bard. “What are you up to?”

“The usual nefarious activities,” he replied lightly; a weight on the end of the bed as Jaskier placed one knee to the left of Geralt’s feet. “So, why did you run away?”

“I didn’t _run away_. I was tired. _I am_ tired.”

“Hmmm. Not convinced.” He shuffled higher, only stopping when he straddled Geralt’s rear. “I think you threw a tantrum.”

“I _did not_ throw a tant… mmm..” 

Jaskier pushed his thumbs into the tight muscles at the small of Geralt’s back and ran them up to his shoulder blades. His hands moved smoothly, coated in the scent Geralt had come to associate with _only_ Jaskier – chamomile and honey. 

“It was the barmaid, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you're talk—, ah, Jaskier not…”

“The problem is, Geralt, I know all of your expressions. All the shades of scowl and all the little twitches. As soon as she came over, I thought you were going to crush the cup you were holding. I’ve never seen you look at a _woman_ so venomously.” He flattened his palms and moved them down over Geralt’s sides, deliberately slow and methodical; he brought the heels of his hands together at the small of his back again and ran them firmly up either side of his spine.

“Mmph,” the Witcher had stopped trying to deny Jaskier’s accusations; he couldn’t maintain the level of mulishness required to resist the bard when he had the upper hand to such an extent. 

“You were jealous, and you couldn’t exactly snatch me away,” Jaskier leaned forward, lips hovering just above his Witcher’s ear, and his voice lowered further. “And that annoyed you more than the barmaid herself, didn’t it?” 

Another warning growl, but it was an empty threat. Jaskier shuffled lower, taking the blankets with him. He pressed a kiss to the centre of Geralt’s back, running his thumbs down his rear and his fingers under his hips. “Seems I’m going to have to prove my loyalty.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier was fluent in Geralt; this particular grunt meant _‘yes, you have some fucking work to do, bard’._

So, he shuffled lower until he could lift one knee and nudge it carefully between Geralt’s. Those same thumbs that had reduced the tight muscles in Geralt’s back to putty now gently stroked over the curve of his rear to the tender skin at the very top of his thighs. He continued inwards, unabashed until Geralt’s arms moved and his fists gripped the furs beneath him. Jaskier’s thumb had brushed across his entrance, and the change had been immediate.

“Geralt?”

“Mm?”

“Has anyone ever touched you here before?”

“No.” 

“I would like to. Is that alright?” 

There was a pause before Geralt gave an almost imperceptible nod. _Trust_. 

“Alright, but if you stay tensed up like that, you’ll break something quite dear to me. Just relax. I promise this will feel good.” Jaskier pulled the bottle from his pocket, tipped the rest of its contents into his palm, and ran his hand down the cleft of Geralt’s rear. He stroked a fingertip against his lover’s entrance once more, encouraged by the shiver of enjoyment he watched shudder its way up Geralt’s spine; he was kneading the blankets with his hands and burying his face in the pillow to stifle his purrs. Jaskier grinned and leaned forward to lick the small of his back. “You are beautiful, Geralt of Rivia.”

He pushed his finger inside once he was certain Geralt was comfortable enough, allowing him a moment to grow accustomed before he moved; a second joined and angled to find the sweet spot that would nudge Geralt towards the precipice. “Fuck, _Jaskier…_ ” 

“Hmm. Is that a request?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Jaskier. _Now._ ” Geralt pushed one hand into the bed and looked over his shoulder, his glare impatient. But the bard ‘punished’ him for his impudence by pressing his fingers deeper, forcing a choked moan. Once his subject was compliant again, Jaskier withdrew briefly to pull his shirt over his head and kick his breeches onto the floor. He slipped his hands beneath Geralt’s hips and pulled them up only enough for Geralt to be on the sides of his knees. 

The bard took his time to press gentle kisses over Geralt’s lower back and languidly stroke the erection that hung heavily between his legs; his own need _ached_ with anticipation, but he would be damned before he allowed the image of Geralt panting and shivering to escape so soon. “I think you should ask a bit more politely considering how sullen you were this evening…”

The growl of incredulous frustration he received was utterly magnificent, and from that moment, he really couldn’t wait any longer. Jaskier was gentle and wary that it was Geralt’s first time receiving _this_ level of treatment. However, this was clearly too slow and considerate for Geralt, who had been stirred into a fervour.

“For _fuck’s sake_ , Jaskier. I’m not some fragile virgin. _Get on with it.”_

“Well, if you insist, my dear Witcher.”

Jaskier had never imagined it would feel quite _this_ good. Geralt’s body was tight and unyielding, and any lesser creature would probably have broken. Still, the Witcher coiled into it with earnest need and enjoyed it most when Jaskier was firm and possessive. He managed to ruin Geralt thoroughly despite his Witcher’s impressive stamina, revelling in the feline arch of his back and the way he grabbed at anything that gave him anchorage during those vulnerable moments. Jaskier’s own climax sent him reeling, and he gripped Geralt’s hips tightly against him. 

Geralt rolled onto his back, and Jaskier gratefully sprawled over his chest despite the thin film of sweat between them, courtesy of the close summer night. Jaskier pushed his damp fringe from his forehead and pressed a kiss to Geralt’s collarbone. “Forgive me?”

“Mmm.”

“Oh dear, well… I suppose I should—.” Jaskier moved to get out of bed but was prevented from doing so by the possessive arm wrapped around his shoulders, securing him firmly in place across Geralt’s chest. The bard grinned and closed his eyes. _There was no need for words._

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Geralt decided they needed to head south to circumvent the Mahakam mountains. Jaskier was sad to leave the Valley of Flowers behind, but Geralt promised they would return before autumn began to drain its colour away. There was a short stay in Lyria, but they bypassed Rivia and Riverdell completely, much to Jaskier’s dismay. It would have been heartwarming to see Geralt received in a setting where he was known as a hero rather than a butcher, even if, by his own admission, it was entirely by accident.

The contracts were few and far between, and the money Geralt had earned from Aedirn was beginning to run out. He decided to cut through Sodden, bypassing Cintra, and head north to Temeria. They kept close to the Mahakam mountains to their east and camped in the caves' shelter when they could; Temeria proved to be far more profitable and _welcoming_ of Geralt’s assistance. The sun was beginning to sink below the treeline when Geralt stopped abruptly. Jaskier almost walked into his back and _blustered_ accordingly. “Geralt, what are you looking at?”

The Witcher was staring straight ahead. At first, Jaskier couldn’t see what he was looking at, but as his eyes adjusted to the shade cast by the overhanging branches, he could pick out the three silhouettes as they stirred from the edges of the road. Two of them had been leaning against trees, while the third had crouched pretty much in the very middle of their path. Anxiety transformed into excitement when he saw the two swords sticking up over their shoulders, and their yellow eyes glinting in the rays that broke the canopy. _Witchers._

Geralt _did not_ relax, but Jaskier was too excited to notice at first. As he moved to walk past, his Witcher grabbed him by the collar and hauled him back, stepping in front of him protectively. It was at that point that Jaskier realised every muscle was coiled, ready to defend and counter.

“Ahh, Geralt. Finally. We thought you had got lost.” The lead Witcher approached with a swagger and a toothy grin that suggested he found far too much enjoyment in his task. Jaskier couldn’t quite see the image emblazoned on his medallion, but he didn’t look like any of the portraits he had found in Kaer Morhen’s library - living _or_ dead. 

“How much?” Geralt asked, his voice low.

“Oh, White Wolf, enough to _retire_ on. And you wouldn’t _believe_ who put out the contract.”

One of the others stepped forward, and Jaskier noticed with alarm that he looked identical to the first. In fact, all three of them looked almost the same. Auburn hair, handsome, angular features and similar uniforms. _Triplets._ In any other situation, Jaskier might lament the fact that a mother had seen fit to surrender _all_ of her sons to the Witcher brotherhood, but Geralt’s tense stance was now beginning to concern him. The second spoke, “If you come quietly, we won’t kill your bard.”

The third chimed in. “The contract also only said _alive_ , not how many limbs were required. So we might let you keep your hands.”

Geralt turned suddenly, grabbed Jaskier by the back of his tunic and hoisted him up to Roach’s saddle, defiant of the bard’s protests. “Geralt, what are you… _what’s wrong?_ What are they talking about?” Shaken and glancing back at the other three Witchers in alarm as the Witcher grabbed the horse forcefully by the bridle and steered her to face back down the path. 

“Find Vesemir. Don’t come back alone.” With a vicious slap to the rump, Geralt spurred Roach into a gallop. The horse brayed in alarm, and Jaskier had to clutch her neck as she sped away.

When the bard turned back in the saddle, unable to bring Roach to a standstill, he saw Geralt face the others. He drew his steel sword from the scabbard on his back and was almost immediately set upon by the other three Witchers, deflecting the first of many attacks with a deft parry. Jaskier tried desperately to convince the horse to stop - _begged, chastised -_ but she charged on with a mixture of alarm and obedience.

* * *

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Jaskier paced by the road sign he had stopped next to, glancing up at it and then rubbing his face with his hands. Geralt’s voice continued to whirr in his head on repeat. _Find Vesemir._ It had taken the bard about half an hour to convince Roach to stop and a further half an hour to quash his hysterics; he had just seen Geralt, _the_ Geralt of Rivia, set upon by three of his own kind without clear explanation. _What the actual fucking…_ “Right… right…”

 _Pull yourself together._ What if Geralt was dead? What if he was lying in the road and bleeding out? Dying in agony alone? _No, they had said they wanted him alive._ They had a _contract_ on him. Witchers only hunted monsters… did _other Witchers_ count? No. Vesemir had said. No humans, no mages, no Witchers. _Only_ monsters. Those were the rules. Where were they going? Who? _Why?_ He should _go back_. Find him. Follow them. But how? And then what? Fight them? Jaskier rubbed his face with shaking hands for the second time in two minutes and laughed pitifully at the thought. _And then get gutted by three Witchers._ Who would help Geralt then?

The only person that knew Geralt was in trouble was standing in the middle of a road losing his mind. That was not good enough. Geralt deserved _better._ Jaskier forced himself to take several deep breaths through his nose, holding his hands out in front of him until they steadied. _Find Vesemir._ He could do that. 

“Right, Roach.” He gently pulled the horse’s head towards him and swore he could see his own fear reflected right back at him in equine form. “We need to save Geralt. We need to _find Vesemir._ And we need to find him quickly. I need… Please listen to me. For Geralt. We can’t lose him; we can’t let him down. We _can’t._ ” His palm brushed on her velvet nose, and she nudged him back, stamping a front leg in decision. “Right. Excellent. _Find Vesemir._ ”

* * *

The ride north had been backbreaking for horse and bard, and when the towers of Kaer Morhen finally revealed themselves on the horizon, Jaskier almost cried with joy. It had taken… he wasn’t even sure how long. How times had the sun risen and set? They had barely rested, but their united mission kept them moving through night and day. Jaskier wouldn’t have found the path to the Witchers’ Trail without Roach’s help, who instinctively nosed her way to the correct fallen tree and trotted happily along the familiar path to her home.

Vesemir, ever watchful of his kingdom, was waiting for Jaskier in the courtyard. He didn’t waste time on a greeting, but the old Witcher still examined the bard closely; the dark circles under his eyes; his grey complexion; his dishevelled clothes. _Something was very wrong._

“Where’s Geralt?”

“Taken,” Jaskier dismounted, allowing Roach to trot over towards the stables in search of well-deserved refreshments. “Three Witchers, Vesemir. They were waiting for us on the road. He… he sent me away and told me to find you. I don’t… I have no idea what’s going on. They said they had a contract, and that they wanted him alive. I...”

“You will eat. And you will sleep,” he raised his hand when Jaskier opened his mouth to argue, and the bard fell silent. “We will head out and soon as you are both refreshed. If they wanted it so, then Geralt will still be alive. He would not want you to kill yourself with exhaustion on his behalf, no matter the peril he is in. Go.”

Jaskier did his best to follow Vesemir’s instruction. He wolfed down some bread and cold meat and then curled up on one of the old Witcher bunks in the castle's lower levels. Although he must have spent hours staring desolately into space, sleep must have come at some point, because he woke with bleary eyes as Vesemir dropped a pack on his bed. “Take me to the place. Do you remember it?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Come on.”

* * *

When they arrived, the path was empty. Jaskier wasn’t sure what he had expected to see. Four Witchers still locked in combat? Geralt’s body strung up in a tree? He shuddered at the thought and dismounted with Vesemir, taking him to the exact spot where the three Witchers had ambushed them. “Here… they were waiting right here.”

“Hmm.” The Old Witcher began to examine the immediate area. He ran his hands over scratched bark and inspected tracks and scuff marks on the ground. Moments later, Jaskier watched in horror as Vesemir picked two painfully familiar swords from the underbrush, holding them horizontally in both hands, silver over steel. _Geralt…_

“What… what does that mean? Is he--? Have they--? Are we too late?”

“It could mean several things. Most likely that they left them behind to prevent him from using them. His equipment was not part of the contract.” Vesemir strapped the swords to Roach’s saddle and then returned to his investigation. The last piece of evidence he unearthed was a bloody medallion. Jaskier heaved a sigh of relief when it was a _cat,_ not a _wolf,_ depicted on the front. Vesemir lifted the chain to his nose and inhaled speculatively. 

“Not Geralt’s blood. Looks like he did a bit of damage then,” he lowered the medallion into one of the pouches on his belt. “Jaskier. I was not frank with you during your time at Kaer Morhen. I did you a disservice, and I failed to prepare you for our world adequately.” Vesemir was walking back towards his horse, indicating that Jaskier should return to Roach. “Not all Witcher Schools are the same. Not all follow our rules. Some have lost their way; they take contracts like common assassins and spies.” He steered his horse south. “The School of Cat is the worst offender. There is a reason that Letho had to winter with us. Cats made sure he and his brothers had no home to return to.”

Jaskier felt sick. “Where are we going?”

“There are some amongst the School of Cat who still wish to live an honourable existence. We will need to find a Witcher by the name of Aiden.”

“And where… where is he?”

“I have no idea. But Lambert will, and I know where he was last seen.”

“Lambert? Why would he--?”

“Mmm. It’s a very long and complicated story. I think it best if, perhaps one day, you were to ask him yourself. However, I would suggest that you fill him with a drink first.”

* * *

Lambert was in Rinde. Or _near_ Rinde. So painfully - _infuriatingly -_ close to where Geralt had been snatched. A short visit to the local inn garnered them the information that he was currently in the nearby forest, clearing up a nekker infestation. When Vesemir and Jaskier arrived, he was surrounded by small, headless corpses and carefully setting a grapeshot bomb in the middle of the nest. He was just as Jaskier remembered him from his winter stay - well-built, handsome in a roguish kind of way, his dark brown hair was beginning to edge back from his forehead, and his right eye was marked by a scar running the length of his face.

“Well, fuck me, Vesemir outside of Kaer Morhen and… _Jaskier without Geralt,_ ” he looked up as they approached, abandoning his task in favour of this exciting development. “So where is the miserable bastard?”

Vesemir dismounted and approached his protégé. “We need your help to find him. And we need to speak with Aiden.”

“Can’t help you.” Lambert shut down almost immediately and turned his back on Vesemir. This proved to be a mistake as the old Witcher moved with impeccable speed and precision to snag an ear and haul him back.

“Not the right answer, Lambert.”

“Why do you think I would have _any_ interest in knowing where he is? Or finding him? Or even breathing the same fucking air?”

“Because you do. I know you do. Stop being petulant. Members of the School of Cat have taken Geralt. And Aiden is our way in.” Initially, Lambert looked mutinous, his teeth and fists clenched together as if he was considering going toe-to-toe with Vesemir… despite knowing full well, the old man would not only beat him but probably put a belt to him for his troubles.

“ _Fuck,”_ Lambert seethed through gritted teeth, snatching his swords from where he had leaned them against a tree. There was no choice. If it was the School of Cat, then Vesemir was right; Aiden was their way in. “Remind me to punch Geralt in his _fucking face_ when we find him.” Lambert cast a flippant Igni over his shoulder as they walked away, and the Nekker nest exploded gratifyingly.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

Lambert didn’t have a horse. He told them it had been consumed by a gryphon several contracts ago and he had yet to replace it. Jaskier gave Roach a protective pat to her neck. It didn’t matter though, because there had clearly been a purpose behind Lambert’s choice of location; Aiden was apparently only in _Tretogor,_ the capital of Redania, and it wasn’t difficult to find him. They stopped at the first inn they stumbled across to water and fed the two horses, and Lambert stared through the window and into the murky interior with a distant look on his face. Vesemir opened the door and indicated for them both to follow.

It struck Jaskier that he had continued to invest in the stereotypes surrounding Witchers despite spending so long with Geralt. In his mind, they were all big, scarred and wrought with bountiful amounts of muscle; they were focused and dour in demeanour, except for when they had a good drink in their castle. 

Aiden was none of these things. 

He sat more or less in the very centre of the room - Geralt would have chosen the darkest corner - with his feet propped up on the table. In his hands, he clutched a deck of Gwent cards and was laughing openly with his opponent. Where Lambert, Geralt and even Vesemir were broad, Aiden was slim and athletic. If you had removed him from his Witchers’ garb and shoved him into a suit of armour, he would have easily passed as one of the most eligible young men of Cintran nobility; _handsome_ did not seem an adequate word for those boyish features and that tousled brown hair. As they drew closer, he clearly sensed them approaching and dropped his feet from the table to turn.

He offered them all an open smile, a respectful nod to Vesemir and then to Lambert… “Well, hello there, lover.”

It was if Aiden had backhanded him across the face because Lambert _snapped._ One gauntleted hand buried itself in the front of Aiden’s shirt, hauled him from his chair and towards the exit. The chair clattered to the floor, and several patrons had to swivel out of the way as Lambert stormed past them with his captive. Jaskier moved to intervene, alarmed, but Vesemir rested a careful hand on his shoulder. “It’s fine, let them work it out. Let’s get something to eat. Aiden can hold his own.”

They took up a seat near the window to keep an eye on them anyway. Jaskier watched Lambert seethe, his fists clenched and his shoulders bunched; the noise of the inn and glass of the window prevented their conversation from being heard. Aiden’s composure was far calmer, clearly not intimidated by Lambert’s earlier manhandling. He kept his body language open, and Jaskier assumed he offered apologies for whatever wrong he had clearly committed. 

Eventually, Lambert stopped pacing and unclenched his fists; he indicated the tavern where Jaskier and Vesemir waited. Aiden nodded now and then as Lambert spoke, arms folded loosely across his chest. When Lambert had finished, he wasn’t looking at Aiden, but at the floor to his left. When the smaller Witcher lifted a hand to touch the other’s face, it was roughly pushed aside, and Lambert turned his back to walk away.

Aiden stared after him for some time before returning to the inn. He dragged a seat up to sit next to Vesemir but offered a hand to Jaskier. “You must be Jaskier. I’m Aiden,” he complimented his introduction with an easy smile. The bard took the offered hand but glanced out the window. “Oh, don’t worry about him. He’ll go and let off some steam and be back in an hour or so; then we can hit the road.”

“Have you decided to help us then, Aiden?” Vesemir took a swig from his drink.

“Of course. My services are always available to the School of Wolf.” He gestured to a barmaid, who promptly brought him an ale; she was rewarded with a beautiful smile, and Jaskier was embarrassed to find himself staring.

Aiden noticed. “Ah,” he leaned forward. “I suppose your only experience of Witchers has been…” He waved vaguely at Vesemir, and then the window - Lambert.

“Yes. I confess… you are not what I was expecting.” _Staggeringly beautiful, actually._ Jaskier’s tendency to love things so freely was a weakness, he knew. It was dampened though, dampened by the huge, Geralt shaped absence in the seat next to him; he would have turned to his Witcher and asked him all the questions currently crowding his brain. Geralt would have answered with his trademark bluntness… Jaskier’s heart ached.

“We’re a bit different at the School of Cat. We altered the formula a bit… few minor tweaks here and there. Don’t worry though, still just as good at hunting things, taking names.”

Vesemir shifted in Jaskier’s periphery. There was clearly more to this explanation than Aiden was letting on, but now was not the right time to pick that apart. Jaskier continued, “If you don’t mind me asking, how do you know Lambert?” _‘And what the hell did you do to piss him off?’_ went unasked.

“Well, we worked a couple of jobs together. Lambert likes to learn. Believe it or not, he’s good company. Funny, and exceptionally loyal, very _attentive_ …” Aiden leaned back in his chair, glancing wistfully out the window before he lifted his stein to drown his next statement. “And then I broke his heart.” He caught Jaskier’s eye. “Unfortunately, not in the way you think. That would be much easier to fix with a man like Lambert.”

“Hmm.” Vesemir finished the bread in front of him. “And yet he still follows you like a lost pup.”

Aiden inclined his chin towards his chest. He knew. Of course, he knew. Lambert’s scent was easy to pick out from the general filth of the surrounding countryside; it was a heady bouquet that he sometimes, against his better judgement, followed for miles. The Wolf kept his distance though, only ever being glimpsed from afar. He was still hurting. Not that he would admit that in a thousand years. No, Wolves were emotionless traditionalists and impervious to the effects of heartache. _Of course_. Lambert’s default emotions were anger and bitterness. Aiden knew why. Couldn’t blame the Witcher, not in the slightest, but that didn’t make him any easier to manage. “I am trying to make amends.” 

“Maybe finding his brother will go some way to doing that,” Vesemir rose from his seat. “I’m going to collect some supplies. As soon as Lambert appears, we’re leaving.” 

* * *

Lambert appeared barely an hour later, his expression unreadable. It was a world away from the man Jaskier had met at Kaer Morhen; cracking jokes, imitating ‘Papa Vesemir’ and sparring with Letho. It was like something had snuffed the fire from his heart and replaced it with a shard of ice. Jaskier hopped up into Roach’s saddle, and Aiden and Vesemir took to their mounts respectively. Lambert stared resolutely forward, but Aiden cleared his throat. “You’ll slow us down. Get on the back.”

The Wolf looked up at Aiden and then grunted a dismissal. “I’ll run the whole way before I--.”

“Get on the horse. Roach will throw you, and I have no room.” Vesemir steered his gelding towards the road without checking to see if his order had been followed. It was. 

Aiden bit down hard on his smile as Lambert settled in the saddle behind him, but he couldn’t help it. “Hmm. Just like old times.”

“Just… shut up.”

* * *

As they rode, Aiden informed Jaskier about the Dyn Marv caravan. Unlike the other schools, the Cats didn’t have a permanent home and instead roamed the countryside as a band. It was just a matter of following the trail and catching up with it. “A band of brothers, defending the innocent.” Again, Vesemir glanced over his shoulder as the conversation progressed, but said nothing. 

Lambert was not as forgiving. “More like murderers and thieves.”

“It’s not murder if it’s a monster, Lambert.” Aiden rebutted, driving an elbow back into Lambert’s ribs, and receiving a threatening growl in response.

There was a story here. Jaskier could sense it as surely as he could sense Lambert’s barely contained frustration. If it had been any other day, any other mission, he would have interrogated the two until blue in the face or silenced by Geralt. 

_Geralt._ Jaskier’s chest clenched and his hands tightened on Roach’s reins. The press of the two swords under his left leg when they should have been on Geralt’s back; his cloak folded on the back of the saddle at night when it should have been over his shoulders; everything seemed to emphasise the Witcher’s absence until the emptiness was somehow _deafening_. 

When they caught up with the caravan, Jaskier was unsure what he had expected to see, but it definitely wasn’t… _that_. Two huge caravans sat proudly in the middle of the huge woodland clearing, flanked by three smaller carts stacked with barrels and boxes. The eight cobs that pulled them were grazing peacefully nearby, unbothered by the arrival of the visitors. The ragtag bunch of individuals toiling away couldn’t have looked less like Witchers if they had tried. Most of them were as athletically built as Aiden and without their swords, or a clear look at their bright yellow irises, it would have been easy to mistake them for common travellers, and…

“Vesemir, are those _female_ Witchers?” Jaskier was incredulous as he watched one such young woman arrive back with a string of trout. “I thought only sons…?”

“Mmhm. The first and only school to train women. Well, other than Ciri, of course.” 

Lambert and Aiden both abandoned their gelding and moved into the encampment together. The Wolf was met with open enthusiasm, and several of the Felines approached to shake his hand or slap him on the shoulder; he was familiar to them, and clearly welcome amongst their number. Aiden spoke with several, including the young woman who was now gutting her catch by one of the many fires towards the encampment centre. Eventually, she agreed to follow him back to Vesemir.

She seemed wary of the old Witcher and kept a respectful distance. “You’re looking for the Triplets,” she murmured; the way she said it made it sound like a title and a dishonour at the same time. “They left a couple of weeks back… said they’d heard that the Eternal Fire was offering a handsome fee for wolf pelts these days. I shoulda’ known. Those three are always sticking their nose in dangerous business.”

“Did they give a name for their contact?” 

“Mmm. No. But they did say where they were headin’. The small village in Aedirn. Here, they marked it on a map, just in case we needed to reach ‘em.” She pulled a crumpled piece of parchment from her back pocket and passed it up to Vesemir, who scrutinised it closely, before showing it to Jaskier.

The bard swore. “Vesemir, this… Geralt killed a wyvern here. They tried to refuse to pay him and he… he knocked out a priest of the Eternal Fire with his own coin purse. That was… _months_ ago, though. I’d completely forgotten about it.” There had been many monsters, contracts and villages between that one and Temeria.

The female Witcher snorted with laughter. “White Wolf always did have class. I’m… sorry… for the Triplets. They don’t… think sometimes.” 

“They are a product of a broken formula. It is hardly their fault.” The old Witcher folded the map up and slipped it in his jerkin, apparently unconcerned that the woman before him looked sincerely offended by his comment.

Aiden stepped in and placed a hand gently on her elbow. “Thanks, Tess. I appreciate it.”

She smiled and rolled her shoulders in a flippant shrug. “No drama. Good to see you and Lambert back together… I was worried he’d sulk forever.”

“Ahh, well… not quite there yet. Best… not talk about that, eh?”

Tess chuckled, shook her head and returned to her chores. She paused to give Lambert an appraising glance as he walked past her, chewing on an apple pilfered from one of the supply crates. He returned the attention with a jut of the chin. “Get what you need?” He asked Vesemir, tossing the core of his apple into a nearby shrub.

“Yes. It seems Geralt might have angered a cult.”

“Oh shit, not the Eternal Fire? I thought they were just a bunch of fanatics. Annoying, but harmless.”

“It seems they took issue with Geralt’s handling of a contract. Either way, we need to head back to this village, find out who has footed the contract, and called the Eternal Fire. If they are the same, then this is premeditated.”

Jaskier shook his head. “I thought they went for mages, monsters... viewed Witchers as a necessary means to an end.” He rubbed his eyes. “The contractor’s name was Paxton. He practically chased us down when we were leaving to give it to Geralt.”

“We’ll need to have a little talk with Paxton, then. Even if it hadn’t been Geralt, this is a concerning development indeed. Cults come and go, they tend to leave us alone as long as we adhere to our vow of neutrality, but _kidnapping_ one of us seems a bit of a risk.” Vesemir coaxed his horse out of the clearing as Lambert and Aiden took to their own again. “It’s a good week riding to Aedirn, even if we cut through the mountains. Let’s proceed.”

* * *

Vesemir was keen to stop as little as possible, and Jaskier made damned sure they never had to stop on his account. Even at the height of summer, the Mahakam mountains were unforgiving. The peaks jutted like knives into the mists, and the sheer drops into oblivion made Jaskier intimately aware of his own mortality. Once they were safely through, Vesemir insisted they stop to restock their meat and water, and they camped the night next to a lazy river winding its way down the trail they had been following.

Jaskier wrapped himself in Geralt’s cloak and sat in front of the fire. Surrounded by the White Wolf’s scent, he felt a kind of peace settle over his heart, and he buried his face into the collar. Progress was slow - too slow - but they couldn’t do anything until they knew where Geralt was. If he was even still alive… _no, he was._ Jaskier didn’t know why, but he just _knew_ it. His soul was so bound to his Witcher now; he was sure that, had Geralt been murdered, his entire being would feel empty. There would be no life after Geralt. _Nothing._

The night drew on, and Jaskier laid down on his side before the fire. The Witchers quietly moved about the encampment, bedding down as the owls and crickets began their night-time melody. Lambert took the first watch, kneeling at the edge of the clearing with his back to the camp and his swords resting on the ground before him. Barely an hour passed before Aiden stirred, uncurled from his bedroll and approached Lambert with a cloak over his arm.

The larger Witcher tensed as that cloak was draped over his shoulders, and he turned to look up at the man standing at his side. When Aiden lifted his hand this time, Lambert did not push him away, but allowed calloused fingers to run over his brow and down the line of his jaw, a thumb stroking over his cheek beneath his scarred eye. He didn’t move. Not even a breath. Aiden spoke softly, “I’m sorry, Lambert. I am. And I will wait for as long as it takes for you to forgive me.” 

There was no reply, but there didn’t need to be. Aiden walked back to his bedroll and wrapped himself up again. Lambert stared into the darkness, his jaw and fists clenched. Jaskier had seen the look on Aiden’s face though. He knew it well. It was the same look that he had given Geralt every time the Witcher had shoved him away; yearning, sorrow, but also patient love. _I will wait for as long as it takes._

_Geralt… please be alright._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that Lambert is one of the most relatable characters in the Witcher series. His background is actually heartbreaking, and probably a story that far too many of us can relate to on some level. Worth looking up if you are interested in the lore. Also, after playing through his quest with Geralt in the Witcher 3 - no spoilers here - Aiden's character really took shape for me.
> 
> Thank you for putting up with the odd editing mistake; I try and clean them up as I spot them, and I now have more assistance (with thanks to my anonymous editor).


	5. Chapter 5

Jaskier and the Witchers found Paxton in the tavern where Geralt had seen off the three bandits. He was clearly several pints in because he made the foolish mistake of telling Lambert to ‘go plough his mother’ when approached. Lambert predictably didn’t take kindly to this and hauled the offending peasant outside to exact his retribution. He forced one wrist down onto the rough surface of a workbench and pulled his hunting knife from the back of his belt.

“Here’s how it will work. Every time you lie to me, every time you fuck me off, I will cut off a finger. And when I’m finished with your fingers and your toes, I’ll move onto your face, and finish with your prick. Are we clear?”

Paxton snarled, “Get fucked, ya’ Witcha’ piece of shit… I ain’t tellin’ ya, nothin’. The Eternal Fire ‘ll burn ya’ for yer sins!” Lambert responded by slicing off the first finger. 

The peasant screamed, from surprise and pain in equal measure. “Fine… fine… ‘ll tell ya’, ‘ll tell ya’... _you crazy motherf--,_ no wait! No!” Lambert had moved his knife across to the next finger without so much as batting an eye.

Aiden crouched down in front of the Paxton’s dirt-streaked face. “As you may have noticed, my colleague here is quite happy to exact his pound of flesh. Start speaking.”

“Yer Witcha… he cast a spell on Rob an’ Rob went an’ told the Eternal Fire. Jus’ so happened we ‘ad that wyvern nearby. Witch hunters were goin’ to deal wiv’ it, but--no, no! ‘m gettin’ there!” Paxton squealed as Lambert dug the blade of his knife into that second finger; hard enough to draw blood, but not cut it off. “Nile told me to keep the Witcha’ workin’ ‘til the hunters got here.”

“We know this part. Geralt extracted his payment. I’m getting bored.” Lambert growled.

“Righ’, righ’... uh, well… after he, uh, did what you said… they put out a bounty on his head. Know what ya’ need to catch a Witcha’? More Witcha’s, innit? An’, these three turned up and started followin’ his trail. Last I ‘eard, they caught ‘im...”

Jaskier too was growing impatient. “Where? Where did they take him?”

Paxton ground his teeth. “They… they said somethin’ about Novigrad while they were drinkin’... about the prophecy. They thought it was a massive joke.”

“Prophecy?” Vesemir was suddenly interested. His arms unfolded, and he rose from his vantage point against the nearby fence. “What prophecy?”

“‘Ang on, let me fink… uh…” He screwed his eyes shut, looking a little pale. “The Eternal Flame shall rise, at the dawn of the sleepin’ sun, and when the hunter looks upon it with his amber eyes… ahh, fuck… I can’t... remember the rest. I jus’ know they need a yellow-eyed hunter, an’... they were gonna burn ‘im. At the eclipse... the sleepin’ sun. It’ll bring a new dawn, an’...”

“ _Burn_ him?” Jaskier snagged Paxton by the hair and twisted his head up until they were face-to-face. “If they burn him, I will come back to this village and incinerate everything you hold dear. I will raze your homes, fields, and then sow salt into the soil so that even your ancestors will never be able to rebuild. He _helped_ you, and you _sold him out_ to religious fanatics as a common sacrifice. You aren’t even worth the dirt on the bottom of his boots.” And in a sudden and very uncharacteristic flare of violence, Jaskier smashed Paxton’s face into the workbench. The peasant slumped to the floor as Lambert let him go in surprise.

All three Witchers stared at the bard, but he didn’t see them. His fists were clenched, and his shoulders were shaking with the effort of keeping his heart from hammering out of his chest. _They were going to burn him._ They were going to _burn_ Geralt of Rivia for the sheer _audacity_ of being a Witcher, for killing their monsters and taking away their fears. And all the expected in return? To be paid enough coin to feed, arm and clothe himself, with the hope of occasionally sleeping inside and indulging in a bath. 

Vesemir was the first to speak. “Jaskier, there is still time, do not fear,” he spoke quietly, crouching down to pull Paxton upright and check on his hand; the last thing they needed was a lead they may need again bleeding out on them. “The next eclipse… it’s not a full one. And it’s not for two weeks. Enough time to get to Novigrad and formulate a plan.”

“If he’s even _in_ Novigrad.”

Aiden spoke quietly. “Novigrad makes sense. It’s where this Eternal Fire has their base of support. Even Witchers are beginning to get turned away from the city gates. They distrust elves, dwarves; anything _not_ human. There’s a rumour that it was an elf mage that killed old Vizimir.”

“And what if he’s lying?” Jaskier glared down at Paxton who was beginning to come to. “What if he’s just trying to buy his masters sometime?”

“Well, Jaskier… as you said, we’ll just come back and burn down his village, won’t we?” Lambert was smirking, but Jaskier could tell he had earned a new level of respect in the eyes of this particular Witcher and nodded glumly in agreement. 

* * *

They tracked back through the mountains. Jaskier was developing painful saddle sores but knew that they had to move too quickly for him to spend time on foot. His respite came when they stopped at a dwarven village to prepare for the battle ahead; Lambert restocked on some bomb ingredients, and Aiden bartered for a few extra crossbow bolts. The dwarves were only too happy to earn a few extra crowns, and then pay them back for a song. Jaskier sang - he sang beautifully - but his heart just wasn’t in it. Not without his muse scowling nearby.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Jaskier spoke with Vesemir in a quiet moment as they allowed the horses to drink from a Mahakam River. “Why, Geralt? Why not just any Witcher?”

“I guess that they could justify it. Believe it or not, the peasantry views us as hunters and defenders; their last bulwark against evil when their lords have abandoned them to their fate. If the Eternal Fire were to start picking off Witchers randomly and then were unable to replace their services, there would be an outcry. A loss of support and the cult would fade into obscurity with the rest. But if they could get a Witcher to attack, or find a similar excuse? Then it would be justified. The death of a violent heretic, not the death of a defender.”

Jaskier growled. “ _Great_. So, yet again, Geralt defends himself and gets punished for it. He didn’t even _kill_ anyone, Vesemir. He just knocked them out. I’m starting to see a bit of a theme here.”

“Sometimes wounded pride is more dangerous than any other emotion.” The Old Witcher huffed. “I have been doing this for centuries, Jaskier. It has always been the same.”

“How? How have you survived?”

“Hmm. With a little help here and there. Mainly from people like you.”

* * *

The walls of the Free City of Novigrad would have been a welcome sight before, but now they heralded the next phase of their mission. _Find Geralt._ Aiden had been right; the Witchers were not welcome. No one told them outright, but the baleful glances from the guards and the populace were enough. As the least obvious and most trained in the art of espionage, it was Aiden that returned to the outskirts of the city walls with information.

“Right. He’s being held in an old castle a couple of miles from here. Everyone’s abuzz with the burning in the local taverns. They all know it’s going to happen. But the Hierarch won’t sanction it officially, not inside the city.” 

Vesemir huffed. “Of course not.”

“But… what it does mean, we will only have to contend with a few witch hunters and priests, rather than Radovid’s army or Novigrad’s militia.” Aiden pulled his water skin from a saddlebag and took a long drink. 

Jaskier nodded. “Right, so now we go to the castle. We free Geralt.”

“First, we need a bit more information. Lambert, Aiden, go and do some reconnaissance. When you get back, we will decide our next move.” The two Witchers headed north along the coast.

* * *

It was another night and a day before they were ready. When Aiden and Lambert returned, they reported the guards' movements and rotations for the past twenty-four hours. Aiden had also _seen_ Geralt while sketching out a rough layout of the place on a scrap of parchment from the outside. Alive, but Jaskier could tell by his expressive eyes that the Witcher hadn’t exactly looked on top form. The castle was an ancient fortification on the coastline to the north. It used to be a good many feet from the sea, but centuries of erosion and weathering had worn away the distance; it was now collapsing into the water, piece by piece. The huge, yawning gap on the cliff-edge would be their way in.

“Very well. We will break in through this gap. Jaskier, you will need to carry Geralt’s swords. If he is being kept under lock and key _here_ , you will need to free and arm him.”

“And if he’s… if he’s not in a fit state to fight?” Jaskier could barely choke out the words.

“Then you must defend him until we get there.”

“And what of the humans inside?” Lambert spoke now, still studying the roughly drawn map between them. Vesemir opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut off.

Aiden growled. “They’re not humans. They’re monsters with human faces.” 

“If the people of Novigrad find out, then it will be open season on Witchers.”

“It’s been open season on Witchers since they set fire to your castle, Lambert. They don’t need an excuse. There was never any line between man and monster. They are the same. There is no place in this f--”

“You’re right,” Lambert broke him off without having to raise his voice. His gaze lifted from the map and levelled on Aiden’s. “You've always been right.” The crackling tension that had existed between the two Witchers since the beginning of their journey dissipated, like they had both been holding their breath and had now let it loose. The scowl that Lambert had worn as armour to ward Aiden away went with it. _Forgiveness?_

Aiden said nothing more, even though there were clearly a thousand things he _needed to_ say. He looked at Vesemir, who inclined his head in agreement. “This cult has attacked one of our own, intending to murder him. The laws of man do not protect us and will not punish the guilty. This is not murder. It is justice. We will have to destroy any possible link; it will look like their attempted burning went awry. Leave that to me.” 

* * *

They had to wait until nightfall. The Witchers would have a clear advantage, but Jaskier found himself yearning to leave their makeshift camp and head up those perilous rocks by himself. Geralt had been trapped in that castle for _weeks,_ and Jaskier was damn well sure it wasn’t in a luxury suite with all the baths his heart could desire.

Vesemir busied himself with building his explosives, while Aiden and Lambert sat together, talking quietly. The Wolf used a whetstone to sharpen and hone his steel sword if only to occupy his hands, while the Cat spoke to him softly. Jaskier could only catch snippets of their conversation and turned his back to give them privacy.

“That look you gave me… before I left. It still haunts me.” Aiden searched for Lambert’s eyes, but the Wolf would not look at him.

“You chose your payday over me. What was I meant to look like? Fucking thrilled?” 

“I didn’t choose my--,” Aiden rubbed his face in exasperation. “I couldn’t let you see me like…”

Lambert slammed his sword down and snatched Aiden roughly by the jaw. “You don’t get to decide what I see and what I don’t,” he growled. “I _chose_ you. All the baggage, blood lust, all the bullshit that comes with you, your mutation. _Everything_. And you pushed me away. It’s not happening again. You buy into this, you buy into it for good.”

Aiden pushed through the harsh grip on his chin and pressed his lips to Lambert’s mouth. The Wolf didn’t resist but pulled away moments in to rest his forehead against Aiden’s with a rough sigh. “Later,… afterwards. I need my sanity, and you drive it all away.”

Jaskier knew the feeling.

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

The cliffs proved just as treacherous as Jaskier feared. Geralt’s swords across his shoulders and the dirk that Aiden had given him slung in his belt, the bard did his best to keep up with the Witchers… or at least not become too much of a hindrance. When he finally reached the top and Lambert pulled him up onto the first floor of the dilapidated castle, he stayed on his hands and knees for several moments to catch his breath.

The signals were completely silent. Vesemir handed Jaskier a fuse, a small pouch of explosive powder and two bottles he recognised as Witcher potions. The castle hummed with activity and for several moments they lingered in the shadows, listening. 

Aiden led them through two empty corridors, before indicating a huge, vaulted door to Jaskier. It wasn’t locked, and the bard slipped through. He had barely descended three stairs before a loud shout echoed in the darkness behind him, followed by the singing of steel as the Witchers drew their swords. _The patrol was early._

Jaskier ran down the stairs, his path lit by intermittent braziers that cast dancing shadows in his periphery. The row of cells was all empty. All except one. He approached the bars slowly, cautiously, afraid at what he might see within. 

His Witcher was kneeling with his back to the cell’s entrance, shirtless and bare-footed. The slow rise and fall of his shoulders betrayed his meditative state, but there was a stutter on the inward breath as if something was restricting the flow of air into his chest. In the light of the sputtering torches, Jaskier could make out the dark blood caked on his pale skin and in his silver hair. There were new welts laced through his scars and a patchwork of bruising across his shoulders. His hands were tightly bound behind his back; the thick rope had been woven through metal links to reinforce the restraint. Jaskier let out a shuddering breath, and Geralt tensed.

He turned, his amber eyes were defiant despite the filthy gag preventing him from uttering more than a grunt; his senses were crowded with the filth of the cell and the noise above. As soon as he registered, it was Jaskier though, he approached the bars, and the bard instinctively closed the distance. He pressed his head against the cold iron and his Witcher mirrored him; their foreheads touched as Jaskier reached behind Geralt’s head and broke through the knot stifling his mouth. When the Witcher spoke, his voice cracked with disuse. “You came.”

“Did you ever doubt it?”

“No. Never.” 

“I’m going to get you out of here, Geralt.”

“I know.”

Jaskier withdrew the dirk from his belt and gestured for Geralt to turn around. It took him several tries to break through the knots of rope around the Witcher’s wrist, and his heart broke when he saw how deeply the hemp and metal had bitten into Geralt’s skin. “Why… why did they bind you? It’s not like you can escape…”

“Signs.”

“Of course…” If Geralt couldn’t speak or move his hands, then he couldn’t cast. _Whoresons._ “You need to step back… I’m not sure how enthusiastic Vesemir was with the explosives in this.”

The Witcher nodded and stepped back into the shadows. Jaskier crouched down by the lock to pack it with powder and fuse. He followed the old Witcher’s instructions to the letter and then… “Ah, sorry Geralt, a little help?” He stepped back and watched as Geralt’s hand moved, casting Igni, his voice crackling through his dry throat and mouth. The fuse sputtered to life, and within seconds the lock exploded outwards, and the door groaned open.

Jaskier lifted the sword belt from his shoulders and held both out to the Witcher as he stepped through the door. Geralt gripped them in both hands but didn’t take them. Instead, he pushed Jaskier back against the wall and pressed a fierce kiss to his lips. The coppery taste of blood filled the bard’s mouth, and his Witcher _stank_ to high heaven - in all honesty, it was the most unpleasant kiss Jaskier had ever received - but he still wrapped his hands around Geralt’s bare waist and pulled him close. When the Witcher pulled away, he said nothing. He ducked into his sword belts and tightened them at his chest.

“Vesemir also said you should probably have these.” Jaskier pulled the two potions from another pocket and pressed them into Geralt’s hands; Swallow and Blizzard. Wordlessly, the Witcher knocked them back, shaking his head and shoulders in a brief shudder as they worked their magic. Some of the shadows lifted from his eyes, and the colour returned to his face; it would be enough.

The others had progressed down the corridors to the chamber at the very heart of the castle, and Jaskier and Geralt followed the trail of corpses that led there. Geralt drew the steel blade from his back as he shouldered open one of the heavy oak doors and immediately parried a longsword brought down towards his face; the counter he launched separated the witch hunter’s head from his body. _There would be no mercy this time._

Lambert and Aiden fought back-to-back. A flurry of steel and fists that coated the walls and the floors in blood and the Cat looked especially feral, his pupils blown wide and his mouth twisted in a permanent snarl. Lambert and Vesemir were swift and efficient, Aiden seemed to take additional pleasure in obliterating his enemies in arcs of crimson and dismembered limbs. _Blood lust._ It suddenly made sense. They had hemmed in the remaining witch hunters to the far side of the room, prowling like predators seeking an opening for the final kill.

Geralt had his eyes on only two individuals. 

They cowered behind the wall of remaining witch hunters; their white and red robes were stained in blood and filth, and their eyes were wild with fear and hatred. Geralt dismissed the halberds that lunged at him and disembowelled three witch hunters with clinical precision before the others could react. When the remaining five fled and were met with Lambert and Aiden, the priests were left to stare down their executioner. He held the hilt of his sword backwards, the blade pressed up along the back of his arm, smearing fresh blood across the surface of his already tarnished skin.

“The Eternal Fire will… will punish you for your transgressions, Witcher.”

Geralt’s lips twisted in a sneer. He beheaded the first in a swift arc from his hip, before stepping forward and driving his blade through the gut of the second with such ferocity that his fist buried itself in the priest’s stomach. He forced the man to look him in the eye as the life left him and blood bubbled up over his lips; Jaskier had never seen Geralt demand such homage from his victims. “I look forward to it.”

* * *

Once clear of the castle, Vesemir ignited his bombs with a single cast of Igni. It started a chain reaction through the halls that they had to move quickly to escape. As they padded across the damp sand of the beach, the castle cracked, groaned and collapsed in on itself. Consumed by the flames of retribution, Jaskier realised. Black smoke billowed into the sky and heralded the arrival of the sun as it crested on the horizon, mirroring the inferno with a vibrant display of its own.

As his prison collapsed behind him, Geralt ignored it. He dropped his sword belt onto the sand and staggered into the surf. The waves lapped over his legs, threatening to push him off balance as the sand swallowed his feet. He dropped onto his knees, barely a few feet out, deep enough for the water to crash over his chest and shoulders. The blood and sweat were scoured from him by the harsh bitterness of the sea. He paid no mind to the sting of salt in his eyes and his wounds; he almost welcomed it. It _purified_ him.

When Jaskier saw Geralt fall, he crashed through the waves after him. Soaked immediately and almost falling face first, he dropped into the water and wrapped his arms around Geralt’s chest, pulling his Witcher back against his own. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

“Mmm.”

“You know, when I suggested a trip to the coast, this really wasn’t what I had in mind.”

Geralt huffed - was that a laugh? - and rested a hand over the one Jaskier had pressed over his chest. “I know...” A pause. “Urgh.”

“What? What’s wrong? Are you--?”

“Hungry.”

Jaskier couldn’t help the almost hysterical laugh of relief. “Of course, you’re hungry. You shall eat like a King, my love. I promise.” 

The Witcher nodded, and amber eyes lifted from the water to the sky, head tilted towards the east. Jaskier followed his gaze and realised, with a plume of warmth in his chest, that he was looking at the sunrise.

* * *

The group put several miles between themselves and Novigrad - riding until the day faded to evening - but Jaskier still couldn’t convince Geralt to enter an inn to eat, bathe and rest. It was as if the enclosure of four walls was too much for him to handle, so they bedded down under the open night sky. Vesemir, Lambert and Aiden headed into the woodlands to find food, and Jaskier sat next to the fire with Geralt. The Witcher was sprawled on his back, staring into the star-dappled summer night as if for the first time. The evening was warm, and neither of them needed their cloaks. In the end, Jaskier laid down with him, kicking his legs out in the opposite direction and resting his head next to Geralt’s; ear to ear.

“Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love.” Jaskier could hear the rumbling chuckle and butted the side of his head against Geralt’s in gentle retribution. “Come on, at least allow me to woo you a little bit.”

“You don’t need to woo me, Jaskier.”

“Oh, but I do, how else will I keep our love alive? Our passion will fizzle into a banal routine, and when the _passion_ fades… the love, well...” He waved his hands in the air them as if conducting an orchestra; one of Geralt’s joined them briefly, only to clasp their fingers together and draw it to his chest.

“You’ve just saved my life. Again. Your actions say more than any of your sweetest poems ever will.” 

They lay in silence for some time. Jaskier knew that Geralt was listening to him; his heartbeat, every exhale and sigh. He wasn’t sure _how_ he knew, but his Witcher had an air of attentiveness that made him feel _noticed_ even though those amber eyes were still cast skywards. When he broke the quiet, Jaskier was almost apologetic.

“What did they do to you, Geralt?”

There was no answer. Jaskier propped himself up on his elbow and looked down. Exhaustion had won out over hunger; Geralt was asleep.

* * *

Lambert and Aiden took their leave late the next morning. “Need to track down the Triplets, and teach them some manners,” Aiden explained, taking time to shake Geralt’s hand before he hopped up on his horse behind Lambert. 

“Twins,” Geralt commented softly. “Only two of them are still alive.”

Lambert guffawed. “Geralt, you savage bastard.” 

Aiden grimaced, receiving the still bloodied medallion from Vesemir’s hand as he passed it up. “Well, I suppose that is justice enough…” The Cat slipped the chain into his pocket and offered a mock salute from his temple as he steered his horse away. “Try not to get your arse kicked anymore this year, White Wolf.”

Vesemir stayed with them a bit longer. He spoke with Geralt quietly in the evenings, out of Jaskier’s earshot. Even though it irked him, the bard acknowledged that Geralt wasn’t quite ready to talk to him about what had happened, but was pleased that he may be discussing it with his mentor. Whatever had happened had impacted him enough to take personal revenge on his tormentors. On the fourth morning, the old Witcher departed to return to Kaer Morhen. Geralt’s bruises were fading, and the welts across his back and chest had scabbed cleanly; the mutagens were doing their job.

“Hmm. Summer is nearly over.”

Jaskier sighed. “Yes. Another dull and rainy autumn ahead of us.”

“Dol Blathanna.”

“What?”

“I gave my word.”

“You did, but that’s a… a long ride. And uh…”

“Mmm.”

“Well, I’ve done a lot of riding and my… umm… well, Geralt, if I’m honest, my arse hurts. So I could use a comfortable bed for the night before we set out.”

“Your arse hurts.”

“Y-yes. It does.”

“And you want to sleep in a bed.”

“Yes… please.” Jaskier pressed his lips together and looked off to the side. Witchers couldn’t smell half-truths. That wasn’t one of their mutations… Jaskier had never really tested it before.

“Hmm.”

“If we are where I think we are, there’s a nice little place about a mile away. And well, you could also use a bath, actually.” 

“I see.”

“So?”

“Fine. One night.” Geralt tugged at one of the straps under Roach’s saddle and then steered her out of the clearing. The bard allowed himself a sigh of relief and followed, shuffling his bag around to his back.

* * *

Jaskier enjoyed bathing Geralt, and those rumbling purrs informed him that the sentiment was returned. He took extra care with his hands and wrists, tracing his fingertips across the healing marks, his brow furrowed in concern. “Do you know what they were going to do?”

“Burn me.” Geralt said it so matter-of-factly that Jaskier looked at him in shock.

“I’m not sure whether that’s bravery or bravado…” The bard lifted Geralt’s wrists to his lips for the gentlest of kisses; he knew they would be basically gone in a few days, but the ghost of those marks would haunt Jaskier’s memory for a long time. 

Geralt said nothing. And that was alright. Not all trauma translated effortlessly into words, and some never did. Jaskier knew that _being there_ was enough. A belief that was vindicated when Geralt leaned into him in silent apology as he washed his hair.

When his Witcher was clean, shaven and Jaskier had applied some soothing oils to the last of the red welts on his back and shoulders, they wrapped themselves in their cloaks, the meagre blankets of the bed and each other. Geralt propped himself up against the headboard and Jaskier leaned back in his makeshift Witcher armchair as if he were the finest throne this side of the northern kingdoms.

“I missed you.”

“Mmmhm.”

“ _I missed you too, Jaskier. My life was barren without you, I thought my heart would break into a thousand little pieces…_ you’re such a--” He had turned around to berate the Witcher, rising onto his knees either side of Geralt’s legs, and was silenced by the soft - _and quite frankly far more pleasant than in that bloody dungeon_ \- kiss. One of those calloused hands slipped behind Jaskier’s head, running fingers through his hair and rubbing appreciatively down the back of his neck. _Of course, Geralt, the man of action, not words._ When they parted, the bard was suitably flushed. “Yes, well… of course, you did.”

He realised then that Geralt was examining him, his head tilted to the side and eyes searching. “How did you convince Lambert to find Aiden?”

“Oh, Vesemir… I thought he was going to get the slipper out if I’m honest. And, _Geralt…_ female Witchers? Witcher caravans? You’ve been holding out on me.”

“Mmm. School of Cat. Not the best company to keep.”

“Yes, Vesemir hinted as such and… Aiden in the castle, he looked… well, a bit _too invested_.”

“They changed their formula. Instead of giving them equilibrium, it enhances their emotions, sometimes beyond their control. They are prone to blood lust and losses of… self.”

“Oh,” Jaskier sat on the mattress as Geralt parted his legs, allowing them to sit facing each other. “And how is Lambert involved?”

“Mmm. It’s not my place to tell.”

“Oh, _come on Geralt,_ even Witchers must like to gossip. I can imagine Vesemir crowded around a campfire with other old Witchers, exchanging stories like ancient, scarred washerwomen.”

Geralt laughed; a full, open laugh made Jaskier’s face _hurt_ with the smile it inspired. “Don’t let him hear you call him a washerwoman. You’ll be staying in the stables at Kaer Morhen next winter, not in the guest room.”

“Next winter?” Jaskier’s eyes widened.

Geralt nodded. “You have earned that right, Jaskier. Thousand times over. Kaer Morhen would be honoured to have you.”

The bard’s mouth opened and closed for several moments in a great imitation of a goldfish. It wasn’t a joke. Geralt was deadly serious. There was no glint in his eye or knowing smirk at Jaskier’s expense. It was genuine. He couldn’t find the words… _where were they?_

Jaskier had to settle for staring mutely, and in the end, it was Geralt who acted, if only to push him off and insist they lay down; Jaskier looked disappointed, and the Witcher draped an arm over him “Sleep. I want to leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Ahh, I used the last of the oil on your back anyway.” 

“Make sure you restock when we reach Aldersberg.”

“Oh? Planning to use a lot of it, are you?”

“You won’t be riding a horse again for some time when I’m finished.”

_Holy fucking shit._

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

Epilogue: Era’vun   
_(For Genkitaco)_

The Valley of Flowers was still just as beautiful as when they had left, and the darkness of the dungeon where Jaskier had found Geralt faded into memory. They spent a warm summer’s day basking in open fields bursting with colour, drinking ale. Geralt told Jaskier stories of the other schools to sate his curiosity, and the bard listened with rapt attention. However, the Witcher felt odd like something was _missing_. Something quite… _important._

There were no contracts available nearby, and the bard had insisted they take a break for a few days before seeking work. Geralt had picked up some new armour in Aldersberg, and it hadn’t been cheap; a few days only were all they could afford.

The peculiar absence only occurred to him on the second afternoon when they occupied a particularly fragrant meadow of wildflowers.

Geralt was sprawled on his back in the grass, with Roach grazing contentedly nearby. Jaskier was humming, breaking into the occasional melodic phrase, but otherwise occupying himself with the book propped open in his lap. _Something missing_. The Witcher propped himself up on his elbows and gazed at Jaskier with a furrowed brow. _Yes, that was it._ As he stood, the bard blinked at him in surprise. “Hungry?”

“No. Stay in the local inn. I’ll be back in three days.”

“Geralt, I’m not sure--,” Jaskier stumbled quickly to his feet, book forgotten, suddenly anxious. “Are you sure you feel like…?”

Geralt moved to him and passed a gentle hand across his cheek. “Three days. Don’t go anywhere.”

* * *

The Blue Mountains were slightly further than they appeared from the small hamlet they were staying in, but Geralt still made it in good time. As he entered the first of the gnarled woodlands that dappled the mountainside, he dropped from Roach’s saddle and led her by the bridle. 

It was only when the birdsong faded, and the very trees seemed to hold their breath that the Witcher stopped. He stepped away from his horse and unbuckled the sword belt at his chest, very slowly lowering both weapons to his side as he knelt in the dirt. Two gloved hands then lifted to press on the back of his head as a sign of peace.

The elves melted from the shadows as if appearing through portals. Their bows were drawn and levelled at his chest as they approached. Suspicious and, Geralt mused, rightfully so given his history.

“Gwynbleidd, you are a brave man. Or foolish. I’m not sure which.” The lead Scoia’tel spoke, indicating for his brethren to lower their weapons when it became clear who had come to visit them. He was tall and lean as was befitting of his race; red hair flowed down behind his ear in plaits, the blue warpaint on his face accentuated his sharp cheekbones. “You were looking for us.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I wish to buy something from you.”

“Buy? What could we possibly have that would interest a Witcher?” The elf blinked incredulously. “And get up.”

Geralt rose slowly, picking his swords from the floor as he went. “A lute.”

“A lute?”

“Yes. Name your price.” 

“We do not need your crowns...”

“Name it.”

The elves glanced at each other, and a second - dark-haired, with blazing blue eyes - whispered into her leader's ear. He nodded.

“We have a Leshen problem. It is polluting the forest and calling packs of wolves to its aid. Rid us of its pestilence, and the lute will be yours,” the elf paused. “But your code prohibits you from accepting anything but coin for your services, does it not?”

Geralt grunted as he moved to his horse and pulled himself up into the saddle, swords returned to his back. “This is a special case. Meet me here tomorrow.”

* * *

The Leshy was easy enough to track. The howls of the wolves that it called were enough to alert Geralt to its presence. He was thankful that Jaskier had not seen fit to empty his saddlebags in his absence, and the moon dust bomb he opened with meant the fight was a lot shorter than it could have been. Leshens were slow, but if they ambushed you, the battle could go south pretty quickly; the explosive deflection from their smoke form could shatter even a Quen shield.

Unable to dissipate, the Leshy plunged its roots into the soil in an attempt to snarl Geralt in a suffocating grasp. The Witcher dodged the dazzled creature effortlessly and sent a stream of flames roaring across space between them. As the Leshy ignited, it screamed in anguish, sending its companion wolves scurrying in fear for their lives. Geralt rolled under one of its clawed hands and struck it three times in rapid succession; its bark-skin splintered and cracked. The creature staggered and crumbled into ash and scorched branches. Geralt kneeled to cut its deer-antlered head from the remains of the carcass, and the wolves watched on in silence.

* * *

“Your payment.” The elf passed the lute across. Even Geralt could tell it was a fine instrument; the neck and body were elegantly carved and the strings sang prettily when he ran his fingers across them. Jaskier would love it. As he strapped it securely to the back of Roach’s saddle, he caught sight of the name etched across its ribs.

 _“Era’vun_ , Gwynbleidd,” the Scoia’tel offered. “It means ‘sleeping sun’.”

Geralt looked up sharply, his lips set in a thin line and eyes alert. The invisible lines across his back and torso flared with phantom pain. The elf bowed his head and turned his own horse away. Without another word, they rode into the trees, leaving the Witcher to stare after them.

* * *

“Thank the Gods…” Jaskier heaved a sigh of relief as he caught sight of a familiar, brooding figure riding down the narrow path into the centre of the hamlet. “Where have you been? What errand could be so urgent that y--?”

The bard fell silent. Geralt dropped down next to him and reached behind Roach’s saddle to pull the straps away. The lute he passed to Jaskier was possibly more beautiful than the one he had lost all those months ago. He couldn’t even remember what the other instrument had felt like in his hands. “Geralt, this… where…” _Don’t. Cry._ For God’s sake, _don’t cry_. Jaskier’s lower lip quivered, and he hugged the lute close to his chest. 

Geralt tucked a finger under Jaskier’s chin and made him look up; his own gaze was soft as he looked down into those swimming pools of blue. “Now you may sing properly for me, little lark.” 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Gwynbleidd" means White Wolf in Elder Speech.


End file.
